by Aime Austin
Valene hesitated, “Um, my fiancé and I have an appointment to see Mr. Dinwiddie at ten, but if he’s not in…”
“No, no he’s here,” the receptionist said, contradicting her words of a minute ago. “He isn’t taking calls right now. He needed time to prepare for your meeting.”
“Okay. Let him know that Keith Grant and Valene Winstead are here to see him.” They sat down on cracked vinyl chairs. Keith shook out that morning’s paper. He hadn’t had a chance to read it over their rushed breakfast.
After thirty minutes of alternating between reading the news and watching Valene fidget, the receptionist directed them to an office. A man dressed head to toe like a reject from a western movie offered them a seat.
Keith looked away from the bolo tie, snap front shirt, and cowboy boots toward the large windows of the office that looked out on bustling Buckeye Avenue. As he sat next to Valene on a gold brocade couch, Keith took in the green shag carpet and wood veneer furniture. It was like being caught in a time warp.
Dinwiddie perched himself on a wingback chair. “Sister Valene, one of the church members told me to expect a call from you. I hope that we can help you in your time of need.”
Valene nodded like the man was preaching. “My fiancé Keith is the one who needs your help today. His daughter Olivia was taken from his ex-wife by the county.” She handed over the summons and complaint Keith had picked up at his aunt’s house.
Pushing up his large glasses, Dinwiddie took the papers for examination. He slowly read each page, nodding. Valene leaned forward in anticipation the entire time he read. The documents had barely hit the desk before she spoke. “Do we have a case?”
Dinwiddie left his perch, and sat more fully in the chair. “These cases aren’t easy. But I’m sure I can get your daughter out of foster care and into your custody,” he said. Valene sat back, her relief visible. “I’ve been practicing a lot of years in Cleveland, and I’ve handled some of the hardest cases out there.
“I knew Doctor King and represented the likes of Andrew Young and Stokley Carmichael. Those were the hard cases back then.” He leaned forward, done with reminiscing. “I don’t take every case, but you look like good people, so I’ll help you out. I require a retainer of at least five thousand.”
Keith tried not to let the shock show on his face. He could never afford that. It was time to get out gracefully. He tried to catch Valene’s eye. When he did, she put a restraining hand on his arm. Instead of standing, she reached into her voluminous purse and pulled out a green plastic covered checkbook he’d never seen before. Dinwiddie handed her a pen and she wrote out a check.
“That was my Christmas Club money. But your daughter is more important than nice gifts,” Valene said, then enveloped his hand in hers.
“That’s good,” Dinwiddie said, slipping the check into his desk drawer. “It takes a village.”
“So what do we need to do?” Valene asked.
“I’ll handle everything.” He stood, they mimicked his movements, and he escorted them to the lobby doors. “I’ll call you if I have any questions.”
Forty
Home is More than Four Walls
December 3, 2001
The smell of the soiled and sticky red vinyl seats combined with the constant jostling of the Red Line train was making Olivia sick to her stomach. Combine that with nerves, and she just wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. Her dad had picked her up from the social worker’s office. After sharing an awkward hug, and him thanking Jackie for letting her stay before some kind of test was done, they’d headed out to his apartment.
When he was looking out the window, she looked at her dad. He hadn’t said much during the ride. It had been a really long time since they’d seen each other—probably not since she was a little kid. He smelled and looked like she remembered. Yet he was a stranger.
Her dad caught her staring, so she asked the questions that were swirling in her brain. “Where am I going to sleep? Do you have room for me? Can I get my stuff from my room at home?” The train slammed to a stop.
She couldn’t read the look on his face. “I only have the one bedroom. You can have it, or sleep on the couch. Whatever you want,” her dad said. When the train started, he looked away then picked up the Plain Dealer.
When they got to her dad’s apartment, Olivia walked behind him through the front door, passing what she assumed were a bathroom and a bedroom. Looking to her dad for cues and getting none, she dropped her shopping bags of belongings on the only clear space she could find on the floor, near the living room’s daybed.
Stepping over to the vertical blinds, she pulled them back to look past the sagging porch to the drizzle beyond. It had been a long time since she’d lived with both her parents. But she couldn’t miss the contrast between her mom’s pristine looking apartment with white couches and coasters everywhere and her dad’s stacks of junk mail, newspapers, and magazines.
Her dad started opening even more mail, and Olivia watched as he separated papers from envelopes. At least there wouldn’t be any school progress reports in the stacks, prompting him to kick her back to foster care.
A key scraped in the lock and a heavyset woman walked in. The woman gave her a warm smile. “You’re here. Praise the Lord,” she said, closing the door.
Her dad looked up from the two stacks he’d been making on the dining table. “This is my fiancé, Valene. She’s going to help you get settled in.”
“When are you getting married?” Olivia asked. In her mind, she wondered what other huge things she didn’t know about her dad’s life. The minute the words left her mouth, she knew she’d asked the wrong question.
Valene fixed her faltering smile. “Come on over here. Let me help you get your stuff situated.”
Olivia picked up her bags and followed the woman down the hall toward the bedroom doors. She couldn’t help comparing this woman to her mother. How could her dad like two girls who were so different? She didn’t say a word when Valene pointed out the space made for her in the closet, next to her father’s short sleeved white dress shirts and his black cotton Dockers.
“So girl, you unpack now. I’m going to make dinner.” Then evaluating her face, she asked. “You eat soul food?”
Olivia nodded. After the meager rations at the Williamses, she’d be happy for anything filling. Valene left, and she hung her few pants on wire hangers next to her father’s, and stuck her shirts in an empty drawer.
Restless, Olivia followed the smell of frying chicken to the combined kitchen and dining area and watched Valene cook. Her dad’s head was buried behind Time magazine. The headline shouting “The Supreme Showdown.”
One of her teachers had talked a lot about the election in Current Events. “When am I going back to school?” she asked no one in particular.
“We’ll go down to register at Emerson Middle School tomorrow,” her dad said. He looked at her long and hard for a second, his brown eyes scanning her face as if looking for something familiar.
Valene was piling chicken on a platter. “Girl, come help me.” Glad of something to do, she stood and moved to the kitchen. Once Valene showed her where everything was kept, Olivia set three places on the table. Like she’d been taught at the Williams’ house, she folded the flowered paper napkin into a small pocket, tucking the fork and knife in its paper confines. She got three tumblers from another cabinet and watched her father fill each with Pepsi. Out of tasks, she sat down, watching Valene bring over bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans.
After Valene said grace, they all scooted closer to the table to eat.
“Tell me about yourself, girl.” Valene said while dishing out chicken and potatoes.
Where did she start? How much did this woman know? “I’m in seventh grade now,” Olivia said.
“How was you treated in those foster homes? We was worried about you.”
“They were okay,” Olivia lied. “The first lady cooked good, but her other foster kid was a baby, so it
was hard to sleep at night.” She paused, nerves twisting her belly. “I didn’t like the Williamses. They had too many rules: when to get up, how to make the bed, everything. We hated it.”
“Who’s we?” Her father squinted at her before putting a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
She put down her fork as the twisting in her belly wound tighter. “It was me and this kid named Jermaine.” Heat rushed to her face. Neither one of them seemed to notice, intent as they were on eating Valene’s food.
Olivia realized she’d been quiet a long time when Valene spoke. “Go on girl, tell Miss Valene what happened over there.”
Her appetite gone, she put down the chicken leg. She couldn’t stop her bottom lip from trembling as she spoke. “Aunt Linda was mean. She hit my face, right here.” Olivia pointed at her left cheek. “All because I said to some kid that she wasn’t my mama.” The trembling got worse, arresting speech for a long moment. “But she wasn’t,” Olivia insisted.
Valene’s hand grasped hers across the table. “Oh, baby. That’s too bad. You’re here now. No one can take you from us. Our lawyer promised us that. Now eat up, baby.”
Shame and hunger engulfed her. She tore through the first chicken leg, and grabbed another. More potatoes followed. And she swallowed and swallowed. The more she ate, the less she thought about Jermaine.
Though sleeping on the daybed wasn’t as comfortable as the princess bed at the Williamses,’ and her father’s clutter overwhelmed her, she liked living with her dad. It wasn’t the stuff of the fantasies she’d had when anger at her mother had flooded her mind with thoughts of running away.
He didn’t talk much. What she knew about him, she was learning from watching. He didn’t exactly invite questions, so she didn’t ask him why he and her mom got divorced, or why he’d stopped coming to see her, or when he’d marry Valene.
On top of that, she was trying to put Jermaine out of her mind. For the first time ever, she was throwing her all into school work. She knew now that she didn’t need friends, didn’t need to fit in. It was fine being the lonely black girl in the big brick building. The other kids were immature anyway. Her dad had bought her a ton of new clothes, bulky sweaters, and big sweat suits. She was able to tuck her head into the hoods, and the kangaroo pockets swallowed her hands. Olivia felt invisible this way.
In contrast to her taciturn father, Miss Valene was really nice. She was teaching Olivia how to cook, and never criticized her for eating too much. Just this week, she’d learned to make breakfast biscuits from scratch, and real macaroni and cheese. Even the vegetables Miss Valene made were tasty. She didn’t force dressing free salads or steamed broccoli on her. The string beans and greens were good.
Every day she’d come home from school, and take a bath. Her dad was working, so he didn’t ask questions. During one bath, she wasn’t surprised to hear Miss Valene let herself in. The woman bustled about before knocking on the bathroom door. “Baby girl, you in there?” she called out.
“I’m in here, Miss Valene,” Olivia said to the closed door. Without prompting, her dad’s fiancé came in. Olivia immediately pulled the washcloth up to her chest. But the sodden green cloth didn’t cover much.
Miss Valene settled her sizable bulk on the toilet, but turned her head toward the door. “I’m sorry. I should have knocked. You’re not a little girl.”
“It’s okay,” Olivia whispered.
“You sure take a lot of baths,” she said. Valene’s observation was a surprise to Olivia. She’d made an effort to keep the tub ring free, and not use too much soap. “Good thing water’s included with Keith’s rent.”
“Miss Valene?” Olivia said. She could hear the hesitation in her own voice. The woman turned toward her.
“Yeah, girl?”
“I really didn’t like Jermaine.” Try as she might, Olivia couldn’t stop the words from tumbling from her mouth.
“That other foster kid?”
“He made me do things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Things I didn’t like.”
Valene offered Olivia a towel. She wrapped the thin terry cloth around her body. She couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. When she stood, Miss Valene stood also and pulled her into a fierce hug. Olivia could do nothing to stop the sobs wracking her body, nor the tears streaming from her eyes. When Olivia took one last shuddering breath, Miss Valene let her go.
“You’re here now. You’re safe,” the woman said. “Go on, get dressed. No need for you to catch cold. I forgot I have to make a phone call. Then you can help me with dinner. Okay?”
Olivia could only nod.
Forty-One
Under Oath
December 6, 2001
“What is your point, Ms. Cort?”
“I’m trying to get to the bottom of what’s true, so I know what DCFS can prove once witnesses are on the stand.” Casey’s voice sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
“Who do you think you are—questioning me?” Judge Grant was up and out of her chair. One long finger aimed straight at Casey’s chest.
“I’m your lawyer. My job is to defend you.” The finger didn’t move for long seconds and despite her best efforts, she shrank back into her leather executive chair. She certainly didn’t feel like an executive.
This wasn’t going at all like Casey had hoped. She’d planned this meeting, on her turf, down to the very last detail, giving her home court advantage. What little authority her office had lent was eroding quickly.
“Then why are you gathering evidence against me?” Judge Grant’s voice rose, its tone accusatory. For a fleeting moment, Casey wondered how Olivia had survived her mother’s withering gaze.
“I’m doing my job. I don’t like surprises and I don’t like lies. I told you this during our very first meeting. Yet everyone I’ve talked to is giving me a different story than you gave me.”
“You’re going to crucify me on the stand based upon supposition and circumstantial evidence?”
“That would be malpractice,” Casey said. Then mumbled under her breath, “but I’ve seen parental rights terminated for less….”
Judge Grant eased back into her chair, crossing her arms. “Tell me again about this so-called evidence.” Nothing in her posture suggested she was receptive to Casey’s answers.
“Lyn B-byers,” Casey said, pausing. Mortification at her stammer trickled down her spine. She sat taller. “I interviewed Gwendolyn Byers. She said you didn’t show up as planned. Then she saw Olivia break into the house.
“Your landlord corroborates the broken window story. Plus she claims to have heard you verbally abuse your daughter. Alison Feingold says she saw the same behavior on a different day. Further, the counselor says she’s heard all of the above from Olivia.”
“Is Olivia going to be called to the stand?”
“No,” Casey acknowledged. She could see where Judge Grant was going with this. She was less surefooted than she’d been minutes ago.
“So what corroboration do you have for all this? Did any of these people see me drunk? Passed out?”
“No….”
“Then there’s no reason that my version of events can’t be plausible. Is there?”
Casey dropped her head like a chastised child. “I suppose not. I wanted to make sure you didn’t perjure yourself. I needed to be comfortable before I put you on the stand.”
“Do you know who I am?” Judge Grant said, steel in her voice. She was halfway out of the chair again. “I’ve been practicing law for over twenty years. I was litigating cases before you could tie your shoes. I may not know juvenile court, but I’ve had trials in nearly every court in Cleveland and across the country. I know what a lawyer can get away with and the boundaries a witness can push. Do you get what I’m putting down?”
The admonition came through loud and clear. “I get it.”
“Anything else we need to discuss?”
Casey sifted through the thick folder clumsily. This meeting ne
eded to be over. Her head shake was imperceptible. She couldn’t say she wasn’t forewarned. Jason had given her the lowdown on working with a professional in your same field.
“Here’s a copy of the transcript of your emergency hearing.” She pushed the thin stack across her desk. “I managed to twist the clerk’s arm, and the judge is willing to give us consecutive days for the hearing.” At the questioning tilt of the judge’s head, Casey explained that hearings were mostly conducted one day at a time, and those days were often in different weeks if not different months. “I don’t want there to be any reason Olivia’s homecoming could be delayed.”
Judge Grant thrust the papers in her briefcase. “I’m glad we understand each other,” she said before stalking from the office.
Forty-Two
Temporary Custody
December 20, 2001
“What do you know about Judge MacKinnon?”
Casey had told Judge Grant everything she knew, time and again. But to placate Grant, Casey said, “She’s better than most.”
“Maybe another black woman will give me the break I need.”
Their conversation was cut short when the clerk admonished everyone to rise, Casey looked at Judge Grant to make sure she hadn’t gotten out of the habit of respecting the presiding judge.
“Cuyahoga County Court of Common Pleas, Juvenile Court is now in session. This is the temporary custody trial for Olivia Grant. If you’re in the wrong room, please excuse yourself now. All hearings are confidential.” The clerk waited a beat, and when no one left, continued. “In court today are the mother, Sheila Grant; the father, Keith Grant; the guardian, Ms. Otis; the prosecutor for Children and Family Services, Dick Foster; and Casey Cort for the mother.”
